Rainy Days and Mondays
by Perry McGee

   Randy awoke to the sound of thunder. The bedroom’s only illumination came from intermittent lightening through heavy curtains. Shadows frolicked across the walls like playful school children.

   And his head hurt like Hell’s Fire. Yesterday he’d sucked up beer since eight AM, switching to Rum around lunch. The last coherent memory he could recall was going to Linda’s for hot dogs, more beer, and maybe a blowjob. He’d put away much alcohol before staggering up to her door, and once inside he must have blacked out. Yesterday’s memories ceased at Linda’s doorway.

   Another rumble from the east, then another flash. Peeling wallpaper gave the barren walls a lunar appearance; Randy promised himself many times to strip and repaper them, but had never found the time.

   He rolled left towards the edge of the bed; a jagged pain tore through his head akin to falling on a sidewalk from the twenty-second floor. The walls lit in artificial light again, but this time the light came from within his head. A firebomb imploded behind his eyes. A powerful stream of tears did not quell the fire, only made the shadows blurrier.

   Randy Masters flopped his feet over the side of the bed and felt something cold and lumpy on the floor. Linda? A brief moment of remembered anger struck him. Something about Linda giving him a hard row to hoe last night, something about his drinking.

   That thought was quickly replaced with whatever—or whoever—was on the floor beside his bed.

   Linda?

   And just where did that thought come from?

   He pulled his legs back onto the mattress, then slid to the foot of the bed and gained footing over the bottom rail. Lightening struck somewhere nearby, and lying beside the bed was a human form glowing in its afterglow.

   Linda?

   Randy didn’t want to see. In this pre-dawn hour, that ‘form’ could be anything; a blanket, a pillow, a dead body. No, Randy did not want to see.

   He staggered to the doorway, carefully and quietly opened the bamboo curtain, and entered the living room. Another bolt of lightening showed the room to be normal. No bodies lying around, that was a good sign. He also noticed two other important facts: he wore no clothes and a reddish-brown mudpack coated his hands, arms, and chest.

   He reached for the ceiling light string and gave it a soft pull. Light assaulted his eyes like a World War as three 100w bulbs burned their image into his eyes. Randy slammed his lids shut and scrunched up his cheeks.

   Then, even in his non-visual state, he saw lightening. Immediately after, an unholy crash. Within less than a second he felt an airy explosion and heard glass shattering. Other sounds contained in the short and deadly symphony were a tree cracking and metal bending reluctantly.

   Then only the hushed crackle of a nearby fire.

   Still not seeing, Randy ‘sensed’ something different about his surroundings. He opened his eyes to a different light; the ceiling fixture no longer provided any level of brightness, but the sharp and wildly dancing fire in his driveway sure cast a great ambiance about the room.

   Outside, maybe ten feet away, a burning tree lay across his car.

   For the first time that day, Randy spoke aloud. "What the fuck?"

   His living room window was now a portal to Hell, replete with devilish curtains and triangles of highly reflective glass.

   He staggered backwards, away from the mad vision, and inched his way to the wall.

   It was then he noticed the large shard of glass embedded in his thigh. Across its surface, orange fire-flickers danced between the falling drops of blood in a wicked polka.

   As his eyes adjusted, many more shards were observed pinpricking his body. Randy thought of Christmas tree ornaments.

   Another explosion as the gas tank erupted. A long slender piece of metal jetted into and through Randy’s left shoulder, pinning him firmly against the cracked wallpaper.

   Randy screamed again.

   As the curtains caught fire and Randy realized his death was only moments away, he grabbed the metal spear and yanked. He fell away from the wall, stumbled, and collapsed to the floor, still with a rusted dagger in his shoulder.

   A small piece of burning wallpaper landed on his neck, and soon Randy’s head blazed. He rolled naked in busted glass for fifteen seconds, then stopped.

   Randy felt no pain, although flames rose from both sides of his head.

   Blood from his mortal wounds boiled and hissed in the human fire.

   His understanding ceased, how could he not feel pain when there was a rusty skewer protruding from his shoulder, fire eating into his scalp, and too much blood running from deep cuts and gaping wounds.

   How can I be alive?

   A shapely and quite feminine foot stepped on his forehead as if in answer.

   Linda wore her favorite Yankee’s shirt and those tight, tight denim cut-offs. Her left shoe was missing, her nose listed to the left, and bloody tears ran from her eyes like a broken Madonna.

   Linda was also wavering as if she were a foggy flashlight reflection.

   Randy tried asking the apparition a question, but because of his glass-infested larynx and diced cheeks, his speech was rendered inaudible.

   However, the wavering image spoke. Linda said, "Randy, I want you to feel this."

   Had there been a doctor recording Randy’s vital signs, the doctor would have noticed a sharp drop in life support moments ago, followed by a strong return of said signs. Lying on his back in a burning living room—while from an other dimension a dead woman held his head to fiery carpet with her bare foot—Randy silently screamed in angry torment. He felt the fire skirting across his eyes, but it had no impact on his vision outside of the fact everything he saw was reddish-orange.

   Linda asked, "How does it feel to die, Randy? Tell me how it feels." Her foot remained rigid against his head.

   "Let me up," he said, his words slurred and raspy.

   The non-human woman said, "Never."

   Randy lifted his bleeding arms towards the nondescript foot and grasp nothing.

   She said, "You sick bastard. I hope this hurts like hell."

   And in fact it did hurt like hell. Randy’s ears were melting and his heart pumped vital blood out several new orifices. "What are you?"

   Linda answered, "I want you to remember."

   And he did. Randy’s mind filled with blacked-out images of yesterday: him staggering into Linda’s kitchen and falling against the stove, a pan of boiling water toppling to the floor, Linda screaming at him and calling him an asshole.

   Randy had swung in drunken anger, connecting firmly with her face. A sliver of bone penetrated her brain. Then only the sound of Linda’s muffled thud as she joined the water on the floor.

   A crackle of thunder disturbed Randy’s thoughts, bringing him back to the present. His hair no longer burned (the immense pain yet lingered) and the fire inside his house had burned itself out. The curtains smoldered like an after-sex cigarette, but there was no live flame. He felt wind-driven raindrops through the shattered window hitting his feet. "Please Linda, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Don’t kill me"

   Linda’s image wavered smoke-like, but her foot was solid as a mountain. "I won’t kill you, but you’re going to wish I did."

   Another memory surged into his mind: meeting Linda at a picnic last summer. She wore a light blue sundress and a smile. He was half-drunk and totally horny. That night they consummated their affair in the backseat of Linda’s Ford station wagon.

   A week later he hit her because she wanted to argue about some trifle subject.

   The rusted metal rod in Randy’s shoulder was covered with his blood. Too much blood Randy decided. He tried again to pull it out and this time met with success. The rod, he saw, was actually a long bolt. Maybe a muffler bolt.

   Fresh blood spouted from the hole making Randy think of Old Faithful from that big park out west.

   He swung the bolt at Linda. It merely passed through her leg as if she were a special effect.

   He mumbled, "Please Linda, help me."

   Like the Ghost of Christmas past, Linda forced more forgotten memories into Randy’s mind; he had clear images of several scenes of abuse. Punching, kicking, biting; enjoying her terrified screams and relishing in the bruising of her skin.

   He swung the bolt again, and as before it only whizzed through her leg like Sammy Sosa missing a fastball. It was then he knew; he had to go to her level to stop her. He had to die in order to stop her.

   Randy placed the tip of the bolt against his forehead, just above his eyes. "I’m coming to get you now, and you’re going to pay dearly," he mumbled through painful ragged lips.

   Randy, summoning all his courage and strength, shoved the bolt deep into his brain.

***************

   Five miles away, Linda awoke to the sounds of sirens. She tried to recall the dream she’d been pulled from—something about Randy—but it had faded into that place where forgotten dreams are stored.

   She walked to the kitchen and checked the carpet. Her damn drunk boyfriend had knocked over a pan of water yesterday and soaked it. Still damp, but it’d be dry soon.

   It was much later that day when Linda learned of Randy’s suicide.

©2003 Perry McGee